A Day at the Tracks
by RosieRed
Summary: The track. It was a place to gamble away your money, your morals, and your life. It was the last place you'd expect to be given life-changing opportunities. (Title may change)


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Title: A Day at the Tracks (may change)

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Chapter: Chapter One—Watching From Above

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Rating: G for now. Rated PG to be on the safe side, though.

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Disclaimer: Disney owns _Newsies_, which includes the characters Racetrack and Snipeshooter. I do not. I do, however, own the rich man who has no name at this point. Technically, Racetrack Higgins owns himself since he was real, but I'm not going to argue with Disney. They have more lawyers than I do...

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An eager young boy pushed his way to the front of the crowd. He managed a good spot in the front and squeezed the bill of his cap excitedly, a habit of his. I knew him, visually. He came here nearly every day and spent his last few pennies on any horse that looked remotely like a winner. Occasionally, he'd have a few newspapers hoisted under his arm, and he'd try to sell them between races. I always bought one from him. Such a nice young man, corrupted by the track.

I noticed that he routinely picked the pockets of unsuspecting passersby. Never mine, as the only things I ever saw him steal were cigars, and I don't smoke. I wondered where those cigars went for a long time. Surely he was too young to smoke. Once, however, I saw him light up a cigar after a disappointing race, blow a smoke ring, and stumble home, wherever his home may be.

The racetrack was a place for two kinds of people. The first types were the rich men and women who came to congregate in small, civilized parties and drink fancy liquors. Their private boxes were filled every afternoon for their socializing. It was quite boring, and reluctantly I admit that I was there nearly every day sitting in one of the private boxes.

The second type of people were the lower class gamblers. Their world was different, full of shoving and shouts, money and excitement. The kind of person that would never own a horse, ride a horse, touch a horse. They had to judge their bets on past winners. Why did the chestnut bay win last time? What made the strawberry stallion fly? For everyone below the balconies, mostly men and young boys, the thrill of the racetrack was the gambling, not the social aspects. This was the risky domain of the young newsboy.

Watching him today proved to be no less interesting than when I was watching him yesterday. Although he wasn't particularly tall (in fact, he seemed to be shorter than average), he was noticeable. He was practically jumping up and down, waving his cap in the air, cheering on some unhealthy beast that looked like it might collapse at any second. A friend of his was standing nearby, laughing at the frenzied antics of his companion. They looked as if they were having fun, a word that had nearly vanished from my vocabulary. With a polite "Excuse me," I left the box of stuffy aristocrats and managed my way down.

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Down here, down where the people were crude and unrefined, this was where people _lived_. I wanted to talk to him and know his name. But what would I say to the boy? I'd ask if he had papers today. I wanted him to tell me his secret to happiness, this boy who knew life with its ups and downs. Did he suffer? Not that I saw, but he might, away from the tracks. Did he even have a home or a family? I wanted to know him, at least, if not befriend him. I felt so attached to this boy, to a life I had only viewed from above.

Squeezing between the hordes of people, I tapped him on his shoulder. He didn't even tear his eyes away from the track.

"Don' bothah me, Snipeshootah," he practically yelled, his voice thick with the commoner's New York accent. I was amused that he had taken me for his friend.

"I'm not, ah, 'Snipeshooter,' young man. I want to know if you have any newspapers left." I started to pull a penny out of my pocket, then put it back and held out a nickel. The boy glanced at me, then bowed his head respectfully. "I'll be wit' ya' in a momen', sih." He took one last look at the race and was greeted with a discouraging outcome—his horse had lost. Pulling his cap off and wiping sweat off his boyish face with his sleeve, he turned back to me.

"I'll take one paper," I said, loud enough that he could hear me over the din of the crowd. The boy motioned to his friend, Snipeshooter. The other kid tossed a newspaper to the boy and the boy traded it for my nickel.

"C'mon, Race, let's go home," pleaded Snipeshooter. "We'se already lost two bucks." Race (was that his name?) turned to go and I reached out and touched his shoulder. He spun around, unsure of what I was doing. I was afraid he might jump me if I made it sound like I was looking for unsavory acts from him.

"You boys had dinner yet?" 


End file.
